


When This Man Lies, It's Trenzalore

by Aloof_Introvert



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: AU, Amy/Rory is in the background, Angst, Doctor-centric, F/M, Isolation, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Trenzalore, Psychological Trauma, Trenzalore, Violence, Young adopted son Scotty, light fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 11:04:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5663881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloof_Introvert/pseuds/Aloof_Introvert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I landed a few metres away; I didn't see how many. The slush made a slapping sound when I hit it, a dead weight before I tried to get my bearings.<br/>I never truly got them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alas, All Music Jars

The bomb burst and I was hurled into the air.

It didn't matter; it had happened before.

Seconds before I set it, I had smelt the smoke and fire; I looked up at the zombie-flesh sky. The Angels were just behind the door, and the door was wooden, being eaten by the flames; flesh or stone, this would get them, this would get them for good.

The hem of my overcoat and the knees of my trousers grew ever more sodden as I knelt in the snow, the town of Christmas's main export. It put out the fire where the flame touched it, cooling it into smoking cinders.

The Angels had gotten their second chance, and they'd wasted it. I said I didn't want to kill them, and they ignored me; they were using the brain stem of a fallen townsperson as a sort of walkie-talkie. That was their first chance. I told them to leave this planet; I wasn't going to die and leave the people of Christmas to be preyed upon. That had been their second chance, and they'd wasted it.

Now there were stone wingtips poking out from above the plank walls, kept at bay as my friends stared from a safe distance. Friends-in-arms. There would be a signal, an explosion, then feasts and celebration once we were rid of the Angels. Until the next threat, at least.

But it was all right. I could live with that. It didn't matter; it had happened before.

The bomb burst and I was hurled into the air.

...

The scent of onions was making my eyes water. Chicken sizzled in the skillet as Amy stirred. Saffron-scented steam rose from the mixture.

     "Cut these for me, would you?" she asked, putting a little packet of vegetables on the cutting board in front of me. Amy had wanted to make something exotic, so we were cooking paella. I tried to recall the name of the vegetables, squinting at the little grey shapes.

     "Mushrooms? I thought Scotty didn't like these."

     "No, he likes mushrooms," Amy said, poking a piece of chicken to see if it was still raw.

     "When did he say that?" I asked, striving to remember. He didn't speak much, after all, and I had a good memory.

     "This morning, at breakfast," Amy said. This morning at breakfast, when was that? I was there for breakfast, wasn't I, or was that yesterday? No, I was outsmarting Volcano Harpies yesterday. Nearly got scorched, but it was fun. "Doctor?"

     "Sorry, what?" A knee-jerk reaction. Amy smiled fondly, shaking her head just a bit. A bright orange lock fell forwards as she looked into the skillet, and she tucked it behind her ear.

     "I said you were spacey during breakfast, Doctor. Rory made Scotty a mushroom omelette, remember?" I was silent for a few seconds, looking at the mushrooms all squished together in their packaging.

     "No, sorry, may slightly not remember. I need another brain to hold it all. I've been thinking about an investment, maybe an Ood orb or something like that." I tapped her nose. She smiled again, and I mimicked it. I'd been needing it a lot that day, the mimicking.

     When I looked up again, a few minutes had passed. The silence was probably companionable for Amy. I was wondering where to go the next day; the planet of Volatile Sadness or the Grimsphere? Both sounded exciting. Maybe I would get a distress call, that was always interesting.

     "About Scotty..." Amy began, adding more saffron to taste. "He said you said something to him at the park. Yelled at him, yeah? Something about taking too long when you needed to get home."

     "Ah. Yes. I apologised to him. Out of line, that." It was all very sudden; one moment Scotty was on the slide and the next I was telling him off. We were meant to be home at 6:30, and it was 6:35. It was just five minutes, it didn't matter, but I was still so upset by it. I noticed that the squares of Amy's celery were uneven and ragged and felt myself starting to get angry again, but I didn't know why. I rubbed the thumb and fingers of my left hand together, a bit of a tic. Amy looked over at my cutting board and the unopened bag of mushrooms.

     "The vegetables are going in now, Doctor."

     "Right. Yes. Sorry about that." I smiled at her. My hand twitched towards the knife, but something told me not to touch it, as though it were cursed. For a moment it became just a little more difficult to keep the smile on my face. "Do you know what, actually, I have some repairs to catch up on. Why don't you ask Rory?"

     "All right. Don't blow anything up, okay? We have enough to worry about." I returned Amy's grin, but it was uncomfortably tight, like latex stretched over my skin.

     "Right, I'll try." I went into the TARDIS; I stood alone and saw my face reflected in the monitor, tried to see if my smile was as convincing as I thought it was, I tried to find something to fix.

...

I landed a few metres away; I didn't see how many. The slush made a slapping sound when I hit it, a dead weight before I tried to get my bearings.

     I never truly got them. All at once there were people around me, my friends. I looked up at Trenzalore's sky; it seemed to be rotting, infected with smoke and fire. I was lifted onto a stretcher, but I didn't feel injured. My head was spinning, my ears ringing with the blast. I lifted my hand; it shook, I felt nauseous, but it was fine. I checked my other hand, fine; my chest, fine; my head, fine too.

     The stretcher was jostled as my friends tried to make a quick exit, and something pattered onto the ground. I looked down. It was a few dozen drops of blood from the stream pooling in the stretcher and leaking over the side.

     My right leg was a torn, charred mess. Through the fabric and the blood and the zombie flesh, I couldn't see where it ended. I looked around.

     "Where's my leg?" I asked the nearest person. Later I realised I'd been screaming it. "Where is my leg?" If they answered me, I didn't hear it. I was fading in and out from blood loss. Swiftly, the darkness swallowed me and...

...

I woke up. I took a breath, let it out slowly. It was just a dream.

     Moonlight filtered through the windows of the Ponds' guest room. Soon I would replace it with other moonlight: the twelfth moon of Volatile Sadness, the Nethermoon of the Grimsphere, perhaps. First, though, some tea to calm down. I moved the quilt aside.

     Where was my leg?

I shook, I felt nauseous, but I was fine. Healed, even; it'd been weeks since it had been severed mid-thigh. I didn't feel healed. I pushed the leg of my trousers up so I could see the stump. The scar looked like a torn piece of paper, ugly and wrong.

     I used my cane-- telescopic, I'd called it cool one day, but it wasn't really-- to wobble over to the dresser my fake leg was leaning against. I nearly fell over. Why had I put my bloody prosthetic all the way over there, by the door? Was I trying not to depend on it? Or was it a punishment? Dependent or not, I put it on. It made a weird sucking sound as it suctioned to the stump. I pulled the leg of my pajamas over it so no one could see; I stood leaning to one side and saw my face reflected in the mirror, tried to see if my smile was as convincing as I thought it was, I tried to find something to fix but I could only see myself.

...

_"Alas! all music jars when the soul's out of tune." - Miguel de Cervantes_

...


	2. From Which I'm Trying To Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In the back of my mind I whispered a message that encapsulated everything."

Dalek shrieks rang through the emptiness. I always knew what they were shouting, even when my ears were ringing from the shots, collapses, and explosions. Hazy shapes passed by me against the white, half-transparent like ghosts. Or was I passing them? They smiled as if in pain. I felt something wet and lukewarm touch my right hand. It was a few dozen drops of blood from the stream pooling in the stretcher and leaking over the side. My right trouser leg was torn through. The blood scorched the flesh underneath flaky white, then leathery black, then angry slashing red as it neared my hip. The ghosts pressed papers to the blood to staunch it. On the papers were crayon children's drawings. Blood seeped under and over the colours. The landscape rocked as if in an earthquake. I stood to get my bearings and the drawings clung for a second, then fell into the snow. One of the ghosts had an Angel's face and wings. I looked at my leg. It was turning to stone. I looked at the Angel. It was closer. The bomb burst and I flinched. The Angel wept. My leg was crumbling. With nothing to support me, I fell.

     In my sleep I whispered a message to the simulated sunlight filtering through my window; I caught myself saying it as I awoke with a jolt. It took me a minute to catch my breath, a few minutes actually, but I was getting better at it. I looked out of the window, and the sunlight was still fake. Comforting, though.

     I got up and tried to take a shower, but I slipped and fell while I was in there and had some trouble getting up; I hit my head against the floor. I dressed when I was all settled; my white shirt, blue vest, black trousers, and purple overcoat. When I returned to my room to get my bowtie, I looked at my leg leant against the dresser. It was still fake. I got up and put it on anyway.

     My bowtie was crooked, so I straightened it in the mirror and whispered a message to my reflection; I caught myself saying it as my legs moved me towards the kitchen where the Ponds were, happy and golden.

...

I stood in front of Amy's door.

...

Legions of plush folding chairs presented themselves to us when we stepped into the darkness, standing in orderly rows. The white light that filtered from the projector was filthy with smoky dust. The tops of the curtains watched us alertly, reflecting light back onto the spattering of crimson-dyed cushioning. The doors stood at attention, holding themselves open for us. Noise exploded in, its suddenness making my ears ring.

     The Ponds and I sat down to watch the movie, Rory having particular trouble sidling through the gaps between the seat-backs; he nearly tripped over an old lady's handbag. At least Amy was there to catch him, and I was there to laugh. The previews were quite loud, and also quite good. But almost as soon as we sat down my mind ran off with me, making me look over my shoulder to check that the door hadn't moved; having a clear exit relaxed me a little. It was set apart from the others, near the aisle, and from its position I figured that it led outside. The only people nearest to us were an elderly couple, and they were friendly, judging by their reactions to Rory's stumbling. They were a couple of feet away and 

     I gasped-- a loud, extended noise that stuttered when I flinched. Amy gave me a funny look; the touch I'd felt on my shoulder had been her hand. "Calm down, Doctor," she said, chuckling. "How much coffee have you had?"

     "Only five cups since this morning. Is that too much?" I joked after I caught my breath, and Amy laughed.

     "I was just going to say that Rory's going to stop by concessions before the movie starts. Do you want anything?"

     "I'm all set," I assured her, gesturing. Then I told her I had eaten some sweets already that day, which was a lie.

     "Are we all good?" Rory asked, leaning forwards to see Amy and I better in the charcoal dark.

     "Yeah, the Doctor doesn't want anything," Amy said. I waved to Rory, a sort of wiggling of the fingers, and the movie titles started before he could reply.

     I don't recall if Rory went to concessions, or when he came back; I don't remember much about the film, either. Crime, imitation, games, something like that. Whenever the characters' voices sprang from the speaker, the abruptness of it sent a shock through me that settled in my stomach. I sat rigid in my seat, waiting for the sounds, rubbing the fingers of my left hand together to calm down (bit of a tic). When Amy leaned over to me and spoke, I didn't flinch, I only tensed up. I felt that it was better.

     "Ooh, 1914. Have you been there, Doctor?" She stage-whispered because it was a quiet scene.

     "Oh, of course. Lovely place," I said, eyes fixed on the screen. "Bit sticky due to the droid society, but they're quite lovely fellows when their weapons are deactivated." Rory's face appeared, half illuminated by the scene (I remember something about trees and schoolhouses). 

     "You mean to say there were droids mucking about in 1914 England?" Rory asked, ever-faithful. 

     "Running about, not mucking about, Pond. There's a difference." Then I think he corrected me about his last name again, but I wasn't paying attention.

There have never been droids in 1914 England.

     Bombs were bursting on the screen; humans in olive green camouflage wielded guns, turning them on each other. Shots echoed through the chilled air, sometimes overwhelmed by the shrill whistles of falling bombs. Debris leapt from the torn ground, explosions gouging out soil and turning it into dust; aircraft glided overhead spitting fire, catching the humans who were so fragile, I knew they would die right away but I still tried to stop

     By the time I tapped Amy on the shoulder, the scene was already over. She turned to face me. "Yes, Doctor?"

     "Actually, I might want something from concessions. Be back in a tick," I said, smiling at her. She smiled back. I hurried to the exit, nearly tripping over what passed as my feet.

...

With shortness of breath, I whispered a message that encapsulated everything; three words, like a fairytale. There were other words, Get To Safety, Find Some Cover, Stand Your Ground. But those were in the film. They weren't me. I looked at the concessions stand, but my hands were shaking too badly to hold a bill, much less a cup of popcorn. I was horrified. I was horrified, and I didn't know why. Normally when I thought for too long about my leg or everything else, the fear got a little more intense than usual, but it wasn't ever as bad as it was in the lobby of that movie theater. It was choking me.

     I stepped outside for some fresh air; it was cold, even for October. It suited me better. I considered pacing until the jitters left me, but I was convinced that if I moved too much I would do something ridiculous like cry or be sick, and I didn't feel like making a fool of myself. I took a few deep breaths and the air stung the back of my throat. It didn't help much, so I stood leaning against the wall, tensed and ready. I was breathing too fast; I gritted my teeth and waited for it to pass. I closed my eyes, ducked my head so no one could see the parts of me that were missing. After I opened my eyes and after the light blinded me, all I could see was my thin metal rod of an ankle, just visible under my trouser leg, skeletal. I folded my trouser leg down to cover it; I did the same with the other so no one would notice, and I smiled.

     Then I bought some popcorn and brought it back to the Ponds, the smell of the butter making me sick.

...

I stood in front of Amy's door, leaning to one side.

...

I pressed myself against the cave wall to check for Cybermen while remaining out of sight; their marching legs shuddered through the cavern, screeching with rust. My hearts were hammering out of my chest, but I could run faster and fight harder and jump higher than ever before. It was a lovely feeling. It would have been better if I wasn't holding a remote with a button that could devastate the Cybership that was far too close for comfort.

     If I pushed the button, it would decompress the Cybership's electromagnetic struts, causing a cave-in and leaving me seconds to get out alive. If I didn't push it, the Cybermen would continue to convert the peaceful people of Wastress, the waterfall planet. I looked at the Cyberman sentries out of the corner of my eye; they had gotten their second chance and they'd wasted it.

     No sooner had my finger left the button than my view of the Cybership was ruined by rocks and debris. Run! There was a rushing in my ears. Stalactites stabbed at me as I turned on my heel and sprinted the way I came, trying to cover my head and face, trying to stay on my feet every time boulders slammed down too close. I nearly laughed aloud, but I couldn't waste the breath. It was brilliant!

     A stone pounded the ground beside me, knocking me down with the quake. Over the rushing in my ears, I hadn't heard it come loose. I glanced behind me. It looked like an inverted waterfall, the current was moving so fast.

     Nothing to do for it but run faster; I was good at it, after all, practically made for it. But when I lunged forwards to stand, something pulled me back to the ground. Dust stung my eyes as I turned to look. My bad leg was pinned under the earth-quaking stone; I hadn't been able to feel it coming, it was as though the hem of my coat was caught. I tugged on it viciously, and then the world was water.

     My skin prickled once I was under, turning into furious gooseflesh, losing more feeling with each passing second. Even my low core temperature wouldn't stave off hypothermia for very long in such freezing water. First my muscles would tense up, then I'd start to shiver, then I'd go into a stupor, then I'd lose mental faculties such as memory, then I'd hallucinate, then I'd feel like I was on fire, then I'd be finished. Tick tock, I thought. Time to act fast. 

     The current was forcing me away from the rock, its force pulling at my hair and coat relentlessly. I grabbed onto my fake knee with stiff fingers and pulled; if I could loosen some of the stones around it, the current would carry me to the entrance of the cavern. Well, it might also dash me against some rocks. The water and grit ripped at my face, my lungs burned because I hadn't taken a proper breath before the water swallowed me. I had a plan, and it was worth a shot. I closed my eyes and counted my heartbeats.

     One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, one, two, three, four, one... two... three...  
          four...

     The hissing leveled to a dull roar. I'd slowed my perception of time, a simple Time Lord trick that was giving me a headache. It's a difficult thing to do when you're tired, mucking about with the Web of Time, but I'd given myself a few extra seconds.

     Soon as I got my fake leg free without actually taking it off, my perception of time returned to normal. Hadn't been expecting that; I was shunted back into the world of rushing water and blurred rocks, a little bit calmer than before, but still starting to choke on air and invigorated by that beauty, adrenaline. The current shot me through the rest of the tunnel, winding away until it sloped upwards and left me on the sodden ground of Wastress. I looked at the reflection of the stars in the growing puddle and coughed out my mouthful of water. My breath was fanning out mistily in front of me-- bits of the planet's waterfalls were frozen, as well as their ponds and lakes-- but my hearts were pumping so hard I felt invincible. I sat up, looked at the people of Wastress gathering around, and laughed.

...

I stood in front of Amy's door, leaning to one side, thinking about the past few days.

...

I stood in front of the TARDIS's console, rubbing water out of my hair with a towel before the strands had a chance to freeze solid. Water dripped from my purple coat onto the floor. There was something about hair freezing solid-- something about a snowy planet. I could think about it later, better take care of the mess first. The TARDIS had dimmed the lights; she knew it was better for sneaking back in without waking the Ponds, and anyway, I liked the stormy grey. Abruptly, one of my legs started tingling, a pins-and-needles sensation joined by a sort of heat, like I was standing too close to a fire. It wasn't frostbite, because there wasn't a leg there to be frostbitten; it was my missing leg, my dead leg. It was only my mind playing tricks.

     I remembered the first time it happened-- how it felt like my bad leg was twisting at the knee, turning the wrong way, and I took off my fake leg and held the stump-- I saw the flaky white, then the leathery black, then the angry slashing red of second and third degree burns-- I held onto the scar that looked like a torn piece of paper, ugly and wrong. I remembered how it stopped: it didn't get better, it didn't get worse, it simply stopped. All the pain, how my imaginary joints resisted the turning, seemed so real. It couldn't be possible that it wasn't. It started and ended so suddenly that I was left waiting for it to begin again, which it did, a week later.

     Tingling and warmth wasn't that bad, all things considered. It could be the crushing sensation again, or the shooting pains. Pins-and-needles wasn't that bad. But I couldn't help thinking _Is this what my real leg feels like, left burning in the cold?_ It was a morbid thought that begged to be pushed away. I rubbed my fingers together (bit of a tic) and still the thought clung tight. I was breathing too fast; I gritted my teeth and waited for it to pass. In the back of my mind I whispered a message that encapsulated everything. 

     A few minutes later, the weird sensation subsided and left me with space where nerve endings used to be. No, space where shadows of nerve endings used to be. Just as I picked up the towel to do something about my coat, I heard footsteps rattle the grate on the stairs. Amy stood in her nightie, unamused. Before she could complain about me being out so late, I smiled at her, and she only rolled her eyes... but after a moment she smiled back with an endearing, exasperated huff. I kept grinning as it hit me that once, after stopping off at the snowy Oodsphere with the Ponds, my hair had frozen solid and I'd shown it to Amy and laughed.

...

I stood in front of Amy's door, leaning to one side, thinking about the past few days, wondering if my smile was as convincing as I thought it was.

...

It was a downpouring day. It had been chilly and overcast on Hastings Hill, and it was chilly and overcast as Rory and I walked into the shopping centre. I just couldn't seem to get a sunny day.

     We were looking for some new shirts and trousers for the Ponds because Amy broke a heel a few minutes before the Battle of Hastings began and fell into a muddy stream (pity it wasn't a pond). Rory tumbled in while trying to help her up. Of course, I jumped in just for fun, but I had plenty of clothes. So did the shopping centre; rows and rows and rows of sharp button-downs, glitzy necklaces, and dark blue jeans lined the store.

     As soon as we left the house, it was as if my lungs had shrunk; I just couldn't seem to get enough air. It was a weird feeling, one that made me jittery and nervous, or perhaps my nervousness was the thing making me short of breath in the first place. I decided not to dwell on it.

     The clothes hanging on Rory's arm rustled as he walked slowly among the racks, keeping an eye on sizes and price tags. "Doctor, can you guard the cart? I need to find these in blue," he said, holding up a pair of jeans of some shape and size. 

     "Of _course_ , Pond, take as long as you need," I said, waving my hands. "You'll see: I won't move an inch. This shopping cart is _the most_ , safe thing, in all of the universe." I stood at attention for effect. I smiled.

     "Somehow I doubt that, but thanks." With that, Rory headed on his way. I wrung my hands and watched the cart. Rounding the corner was a group of people-- laughing, talking, physically not much younger than I was-- not a threat in the slightest, but my brain told me to get as far as possible from them. I was alone, I was vulnerable, and the instinct to run and hide was so strong that I was halfway to Rory before I realized it. I felt like a fool when he noticed me, but part of my brain was convinced that to let the people reach me would mean certain death or at least injury. I knew the damage that a single being could do. Panicking a bit, I grabbed a handful of clothes from the rack and came up to Rory before he did. "What are you doing, Doctor? I thought you were watching the cart," he said, puzzled.

     "I was! But I thought you might like this." With a flourish, I showed him the clothes: an orange and green striped shirt and a pair of bright yellow jeans. He made a face. I smiled. From then on, I made it my mission to get him to try on the most ridiculous outfits I could possibly find. I don't know why I did it; to make him laugh, I suppose. However, when I was so close to convincing Rory that a women's blouse was a men's shirt, he got fed up and banned me from choosing any and all articles of clothing. I smiled (even though I wasn't particularly pleased; I wasn't even particularly calm). As we moved through the store, I straightened the racks and put the shirts away in the right places. It bothered me if I didn't.

     It came time to replace Rory's rock-smashed wristwatch, and therefore time for the elevator. On the way there, I said some quip about tiles-- I don't remember what I said. I only remember the stab of fear when the elevator doors opened and there was another person in there. Rory started to enter, but I pulled him away by his sleeve. "What is it, Doctor?" he asked, slightly agitated, as the doors closed on the stranger. I grinned.

     "There's nothing wrong with taking the stairs, Pond. Elevators are just like teleports-- they get you where you need to be, but they suck the fun out of it! Come along, there's a stairwell just around the corner." Rory grumbled a little, something about how stairs didn't seem very fun, but I ignored him, smiling. I lurched up the steps.

     "Doctor, put that down," Rory sighed.

     "What? This?" I asked, putting on the black fedora.

     "Yes, that."

     "The way I see it, Rory, is that I can't be expected to leave my head all alone when there are all these hats lying around." I picked up a sun hat, studied it, and switched it for the fedora. "My head is lonely," I explained. Rory pinched the bridge of his nose.

     "Look, do you really want to get one?"

     "No. I'd rather have an original, not a replica." 

     "Then let's get going." Rory stole the hat from my head, returning it to its hook. I took a minute to look appalled (even though I wasn't particularly anything).

     While we stood in line, watching the sales clerk scan the clothes, I straightened the candies arranged on the counter, turning them so their labels all faced out. "That's funny," Rory said. "Usually you're the one _making_ the mess, not cleaning it up." He smiled like he'd made a joke.

     "Yes, Pond, I suppose you're right," I said, grinning like I was proud (even though I didn't have anything to be proud of). I wondered if it was as convincing as I thought it was. 

     We stepped into the downpour, Rory and I, into the people I couldn't see clearly, even when I borrowed Amy's glasses.

...

I stood in front of Amy's door, leaning to one side, thinking about the past few days, wondering if my smile was as convincing as I thought it was, dropping it because I didn't want to smile.

...

The bomb burst and I was hurled into the air, but that's not all.

     On the front lines, I fought and killed. Daleks screamed and Angels cried. I faced them stoically, making myself look bigger like a cornered animal, so the humans of Christmas learned to be threatening too. I dealt the final hand with a flourish. I stained the ground when I stepped on it, bloody footprints that the humans hated. Most of them grinned and bore it. Some of them figured that if I was gone, Trenzalore would be left alone. It was a peaceful planet, but now it knew war, now it knew me. They cornered me in a secluded neck of the woods, bright young things, so much potential. I was alone. Other attempts were made on my life, just like with any supposedly important person. They pretended to be my friends and turned on me when I let my guard down. I had other people, of course. I had real friends. On the front lines I fought and killed. I slept on the floor and looked after the townspeople when they were sick. I cherished the sunlight, I fought and screamed until it all blurred together, Daleks, tea, Angels, waking up, Ice Warriors, talking with friends. Christmas was a battleground and citizens were soldiers.

     I woke up one night with another war on my mind, one that haunted me. I woke up and realized that I couldn't take another war. It was a statement of fact: I simply couldn't. But I needed to get up and make some coffee to stave off sleep, then I needed to check the watchmen, then I needed to do this and that, a perfectly structured day that had to be seen through to the finish. So I stood and shook off the thoughts. I smiled and felt nothing. But other than that, I was doing fine. I had to. 

     On the front lines I whispered, "Face another day."

...

  
I knocked on Amy's door.

  
...

_"History is the nightmare from which I'm trying to awake." - Stephen Dedalus_

...

_The man who lies will lie no more. When this man lies, it's Trenzalore._

...

 

 

 


End file.
